


Looking for Sibyl

by wheel_pen



Series: Daisy [43]
Category: Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Naughtiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 20:41:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheel_pen/pseuds/wheel_pen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daisy reveals herself. “If he thought I was suddenly going to spill every secret I carried, he was mistaken. My secrets felt comfortable on me, like the weight of a favorite sweater. Or a lover.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Looking for Sibyl

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. Daisy, my original character, moved to Mystic Falls about a year ago. There is something special about her.
> 
> 2\. This series begins with the first season of the TV show and completely diverges about halfway through the first season. Facts revealed later on the show might not make it into this series.
> 
> 3\. Underage warning: This series may contain human or human-like teenagers, in high school, in sexual situations.
> 
> 4\. The bad words are censored. That’s just how I do things.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this AU. I own nothing and appreciate being able to play in this universe.

The man was clearly a lunatic. He ranted and raved to the camera, waving a gun around, his eyes wide and bloodshot. Maybe he was on drugs, or maybe he was mentally ill and _not_ on drugs. Either way he had a weapon, and hostages, and a camera crew broadcasting his demands.

“We need snipers,” Damon opined knowledgeably. “Look how he’s leaving himself wide open. A good sniper could take him out—boom!” He fired his finger at the TV screen.

“What do you know about _snipers_?” Elena asked in disgust, curling up smaller into Stefan’s side on the couch.

“Uh, _sharpshooter_ ,” Damon replied obnoxiously, referring to himself. “Attached to the 23rd Virginia Infantry. Also, _Call of Duty 1_ , _2_ , and _3_ ,” he added in a less grandiose tone. She rolled her eyes, unamused with his attitude about a local tragedy unfolding before their eyes.

“I just can’t believe this is happening,” she said for about the tenth time, squeezing Stefan tightly. “I’m sure I know some of the people in the bank.”

Stefan had a pensive look beside her—one got the feeling he was mentally making a blueprint of the bank from his memories of being there. Stefan was very much the hero type—not a glory hound, but someone who wanted to help and knew he had the ability to do what others couldn’t. Damon—who was _not_ the hero type—recognized the look on his brother’s face as dangerously compassionate and sought to distract him.

“What do you think he’s saying?” Damon queried. “He wants the ‘symbol’? He needs to be more specific. This isn’t a Dan Brown novel.”

“Something to take away his pain,” Stefan replied, repeating the man’s words minus the term in question. “I thought it sounded more like ‘civil.’”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Elena observed with a frown.

“Wow, he’s talking nonsense,” Damon retorted with mock surprise. “Like a crazy guy waiting to be taken down by a sniper.”

He wouldn’t wait long enough, I surmised, watching the face on TV contorted by rage and pain. Snipers were certainly on their way, but he would break before they arrived, his grief so close to the surface that the tiniest crack would allow it to burst forth. People would die. People always died. People died frequently in the present company. But something inside me made me type a keyword into the search box on the screen before me anyway.

Damon glanced over his shoulder at me. “Come here and cuddle me, honey, the bad man scares me!”

I ignored this, sorting through the search results. “I think he’s saying _sibyl_ ,” I announced from the desk.

Three heads turned towards me. “Oh, I saw that movie,” Damon dismissed. “That’s the multiple-personality woman, right? Maybe she’s his role model.”

“Maybe it’s the name of someone in town,” Elena guessed, starting to get excited about solving the mystery. “He wants to find Sibyl, to take away his pain. Like she’s an ex-girlfriend or something.” Stefan, who knew all about pain-inducing exes, nodded thoughtfully. Damon, who also knew all about pain-inducing exes, rolled his eyes in derision.

“Sibyls were oracles in the ancient Mediterranean world,” I informed them, tactfully skipping over the ex-girlfriend theory. I skimmed the Wikipedia page.

“Like the Oracle at Delphi?” Stefan asked curiously.

“Similar,” I told him, “but technically the Pythia at Delphi wasn’t a sibyl. Sorry, I just read that sentence here,” I added, feeling like I was probably splitting hairs.

Sensing that in this town, a supernatural answer was probably the right one, Stefan left the couch and moved to read over my shoulder. Disliking his brother’s proximity to me Damon followed, but he positioned himself facing us as he didn’t care what was on the screen. Then Elena felt left out and bereft of comfort, so she joined us as well.

“The sibyls could tell the future,” I went on. “Alexander the Great consulted with the Libyan Sibyl after his conquest of Egypt in 332 BC.”

“If he wanted to know the future, shouldn’t he have consulted the sibyl _before_ he conquered Egypt?” Damon asked boredly. “Anyway, this guy’s future is not exactly a mystery. Psych ward, jail, or _death_ is pretty much it.”

“Scroll down,” Stefan requested intently. I gave up the mouse to him and he flashed through several pages, following links as fast as the pages could load. “’Sibyls were also renowned for their ability to _take away emotional pain_ ,’” he read significantly.

“What does that mean?” Elena asked in confusion. “Like a… therapist or something?” I scooted over so she could read the screen herself.

“Probably more sudden and magical, at least according to myth,” Stefan corrected, straightening back up and starting to pace.

“People would visit the sibyl to have her ‘lift the burden from their shoulders,’” Elena read aloud, intrigued and perhaps a little afraid.

“He said he ‘tracked the sibyl here,’ so he must think someone in town is this… person,” Stefan observed.

“How would you track a sibyl?” Elena wanted to know.

I looked up and found Damon staring right at me. “Maybe she leaves footprints,” he suggested unhelpfully.

I tore my gaze away from his and faced the others. “These sites are a little light on the whole tracking and identifying part,” I admitted. “But maybe one of these books…” For a moment we all glanced around at the massive library of ancient volumes surrounding us.

Stefan’s next line was obvious. “There’s no time for that,” he said decisively. “We need to stop him before anyone gets hurt.”

“What’s this ‘we’ business?” Damon asked coolly. “Do _you_ have multiple personalities now?”

Stefan glared at his brother while Elena made the appeal. “Damon, we need to help. That man could kill someone.”

“That reminds me,” Damon replied casually, “when’s dinner?”

Elena made a noise of disgust as Damon disappointed her yet again. Why she had any hope left for him, I didn’t know. Stefan, who was slightly more resigned to his brother’s attitude, shook his head and went for the door. “I have an idea,” he said grimly, “and it should work fine with just _one_.” Elena grabbed her purse and started to follow him, and he turned on her. “What are you—“

“Wait, wait, I got this one,” Damon interrupted, and I turned away so the others wouldn’t see my smirk. “’What are you doing, my darling?’” he said, clearly trying to imitate Stefan. “’You should stay here with the amoral vampire, where it’s safe!’ ‘No, no, honeybunch,’” he replied, now mocking Elena with a high-pitched voice, “’I must place myself in danger and distract you while you’re trying to do something that’s already stupid!’ Should we do the next five minutes of back-and-forth, or just skip to the part where she sneaks off to follow you after appearing obedient?”

Damon’s routine was met with frosty silence. Then Stefan turned to Elena and held out his hand. “Please come with me,” he requested. “But stay at a safe distance.”

With a superior look at Damon, she took Stefan’s hand. “I promise,” she told him. “Should I call Bonnie? She might be able to help, too.”

Damon rolled his eyes as they marched out the door. “Stay out of camera range!” he called after them.

We heard them hurry down the stairs and get into the car. Damon watched them drive away through the window; when he was sure they were gone, he gave me a probing look and whooshed to my side. “So how close do you have to be to take away his pain?” he asked pointedly.

I wasn’t surprised at the question. I merely gave him a look that acknowledged his theory and said, “Within the same room should be sufficient.”

Neither of us made a move towards the door, however. Damon stared down at me as if hoping more answers would scroll across my face like the computer screen, and I gazed off at nothing, trying to see how this scenario would play out. “Do you actually need my help to stop this guy, or is the only thing holding you back the philosophical dilemma?” he finally asked, coldly.

I ignored his tone. Though his realization meant I was suddenly a little less mysterious to him, it also meant he had to reassess everything he knew of me, and until he’d finished adjusting he was likely to feel defensive. “You’re faster than I am,” I pointed out matter-of-factly. I was still very conscious of my desire to reveal as little as possible—and Damon didn’t like this, either. “I could use your help.”

“No principle against helping people who take hostages?” he checked, unnerved by my preoccupied expression.

I faced him fully. “I don’t really have too many principles,” I admitted. The look he gave me said, in a slightly mean way, that he’d guessed as much. “I just don’t like to risk exposure.”

“Well, that’s a principle I can agree with,” he decided, unthawing a little. “So… do you wanna go down to the bank and help Stefan and Elena do something stupid, or should we order in and watch the soaps?”

“Live people generate better drama than TV any day,” I said by way of reply. “What’s your idea?”

 

That evening Damon and I curled up on my bed in the attic of my mom’s house, listening to the rain patter on the roof and the late night talk shows bray from the TV downstairs. He wanted to make absolutely certain Stefan wouldn’t overhear what we were talking about—although if he thought I was suddenly going to spill every secret I carried, he was mistaken. My secrets felt comfortable on me, like the weight of a favorite sweater. Or a lover.

But I could also understand his desperation to know _something_. “So you’re a sibyl,” he began, and I raised my eyebrows as if to say we were past that point. “Like in ancient Greece. But you’re _black_.”

I outright rolled my eyes. “In case you hadn’t noticed, the southern coast of the Mediterranean is _Africa_ ,” I reminded him.

“And you can tell the future,” he checked, back on track. “How come things can take you by surprise, then?”

“I don’t just _know_ the future, instantly, all the time,” I tried to explain. “I have to think about it first, deliberately.”

“You just _think_ about it?” he repeated, sounding slightly disappointed. “No intoxicating substances, no reading tea leaves or goat entrails?”

“Only in the interests of theatricality,” I assured him. He gave me a hard look, as if he suspected I was leaving something out. “For party tricks like predicting coin tosses, one needs magical powers,” I admitted, being as general as possible. “But for most human dilemmas a basic knowledge of current events and some observational skills suffice. There are whole industries based on humans using similar abilities,” I added.

“Well, thank G-d for the party tricks or you’d be out of work,” he said dryly.

“I may have understated the case slightly.”

“We’re gonna be testing this,” he threatened.

“I predict we won’t.”

“Ha ha,” he acknowledged. “Let’s talk about this whole ‘absorbing emotions’ thing.” He knew he’d hit the right topic when I shifted uncomfortably beside him. Sibyls were famed in ancient times—and mythology classes—for their prophecies; but I found that the lesser-known aspect was the one that affected me the most on a day-to-day basis. “I think you actually _need_ to absorb them,” Damon suggested, giving me a long look. “I think you _feed_ on them.”

I couldn’t help but smile a little. Now that he’d had some time to think—and had perfect recall to think back on—he was starting to put the pieces together. I shouldn’t have been surprised—he was cunning, observant, and open-minded—but it had been a while since I’d had a conversation like this with someone. “I eat regular food, too,” I reminded him. “More easily than you can. But yes, I need to feed on people’s emotions.” I felt I had fundamentally committed myself with this answer.

I saw the wheels in his mind turning, saw him figuring out ways he could use this ability of mine to his advantage. I wondered if I would resent his schemes, or if we would be even more compatible now. I would have to think that over later.

“People feel better after talking to you, so you must absorb their _negative_ emotions,” he observed. “Are you limited to only that kind?” I indicated no. “If you absorb emotions from someone, you change the way they feel,” he surmised. “So you can manipulate how people feel. Therefore, it follows you can manipulate what they _do_. I _knew_ you could do mind control tricks,” he added smugly.

“Manipulating people with the right words or body language is not very difficult,” I reminded him coolly.

“Right, like you predict the future just by _thinking_ about it,” he replied sarcastically.

“You’re trying to goad me into quantifying how powerful I am, or better yet, giving you a demonstration,” I stated calmly.

He faked an expression of surprise. “Oh my G-d, are you a mind reader, too?” I gave him a narrow look. “I can do without the demo, though,” he decided, no doubt thinking of the arm I _may_ have broken once. “I’ve already got you down for hovering, strength, and healing. Not speed, though. You should’ve held out for that.” I just looked at him, without comment. “If you can manipulate emotions, obviously you can _sense_ people’s emotions,” he deduced, going back to his Sherlock Holmes routine. “And sensing people’s emotions to a high degree of nuance is practically like mind-reading. Would you say you have a _high_ degree of nuance, or just medium?”

“I can’t feed from vampires,” I said instead, which took him by surprise.

“You can’t?”

I shook my head. “If I were stuck on a deserted island with just you, I would starve to death.”

“Wow.” He gave that some thought. “Would you be _unable_ to get off the island before that?”

“That was merely a common cultural example.” There was another question I was waiting for him to ask that was a little more pertinent.

“You can’t absorb emotions from vampires,” he repeated. “Which, if my line of reasoning is correct, means you can’t manipulate vampires’ emotions, either.” He studied my expression. “I’m guessing my line of reasoning is _not_ correct.”

“Absorbing and manipulating are interconnected, but not synonymous,” I told him, as technically as possible. “And it’s harder with vampires than with humans,” I offered freely. “I think it may have something to do with the fact that technically you’re dead, so your brain doesn’t work the same way—“

“Do you ever manipulate me?”

“I have,” I told him, and waited to see how he would take that. His jaw tightened but he didn’t push away. “In extreme circumstances. For example, when you had just attacked Bonnie after Emily made her destroy the crystal. I helped you to calm down.”

“Only times like that?” I indicated yes. “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

“You trust me,” I pointed out dismissively. “You’re just mad.”

“D----t,” he swore, as though I’d figured out some trick he thought would stump me. “No wonder you’re so good in bed.”

I rolled my eyes in complete disgust. “Yes, obviously my powers have been finely honed for _just_ that purpose.”

“Well, great sex is nothing to sneer at,” he decided. “I would take that side effect over a lot of others.” I sighed and waited to see if he had anything else to say. “So you predict the future, you manipulate emotions, and you have a few other miscellaneous powers like hovering, strength, and healing,” he summarized, reducing my entire existence to the description of a minor comic book character. I raised an eyebrow to let him know I wasn’t fazed by that. “I’m not getting what the big secret is.”

And he really wasn’t. But how could he? He didn’t have enough information. “No?”

He shrugged. “Well, people can get all weird when you use the phrase ‘manipulate emotions’… But really, you make people feel better, while getting fed, and they don’t even know it’s happening. It’s like… anti-vampirism.”

It wasn’t a noble principle that drove me to clarify for him—as I’d told him before, I had precious few of those—but just an urge that said right here, right now, I couldn’t conceal this from him. I listened to those urges. To ignore them was to invite disaster.

“Why do you hide who you are?” I asked him. Normally I hated the Socratic approach, but I thought it might be useful in this case.

Damon’s eyes widened slightly in disbelief. “I _hurt_ people,” he reminded me bluntly. “I _kill_ them, and I don’t care. That tends not to go over well at the neighborhood block party. They start talking about wooden bullets and stakes, and that makes me nervous.”

I nodded slowly in agreement. To my surprise it was harder to speak than I had expected. “I hurt people, too,” I told him. I wasn’t ashamed; but sometimes the enormity of it disturbed me. “My mom, for example—“

“She’s not _really_ your mom, is she?” Damon interrupted.

“No, she just thinks she is,” I agreed. “When I first met her, she was already making bad choices with her life. And I haven’t let her stop. Any time she starts to clean up her act, I push her just a little bit in the other direction, over that edge. I have made her miserable every single day, because I need her misery to survive.” I wasn’t trying to justify my actions or make him pity me for them—anymore than _he_ would try to justify _his_ actions to _me_. We just accepted them as part of us, as what we did. Damon nodded slowly in understanding. But I wasn’t quite done. “And sometimes, I kill people.”

The thoughts flashed across his face. “The guy at the bank—“

“Wanted me to take away his pain, and I did,” I interrupted. “His pain was all he had. He was dead before the bullet reached him. But that was what he wanted.” The man at the bank was uninteresting to me, except for the lingering question of how he’d found me. I leaned forward, though Damon had no intention of missing what I said next. “Sometimes, to cause pain in people, I kill those they love.”

I let this idea sink in for a long moment. It was crucial that he understand—it became clear to me that if I concealed this detail, it would come back to hurt me later. He had to know. “How?”

I wondered if he was picturing me with a gun, or holding a bottle of poison over a pie. “Humans weren’t meant to operate motorized vehicles,” I opined. “They’re easily confused and distracted, and their reflexes aren’t fast enough.”

“The truck stop,” he realized suddenly. “We’d been on the island for three days, and you were hungry. The _deserted_ island.”

“It was careless of me,” I reproved myself. “I should’ve been better prepared.”

“You left a woman alive in each car,” he remembered. “’A woman’s grief is sweeter than a man’s.’”

“The teenage girl lost her best friends, and the woman lost her whole family,” I noted. “I absorbed the shock and grief they felt at the scene, which made them feel better temporarily, but… they will never forget those losses. They will haunt them for the rest of their lives.” I paused, staring him straight in the eye. “That’s what I do. You can make people forget that you’ve hurt them, that they’ve been hurt. I don’t. There’d be no benefit to me if I did.”

There was a long, quiet moment. Damon’s face was curiously unreadable, but I wasn’t trying too hard. “Elena’s parents,” he finally said. It wasn’t a question.

“I’d met her at school,” I replied, my lack of denial saying everything. “I knew she… felt things deeply.”

“And now you’re good friends,” he added, a sardonic twist in his grin. The bitter irony of it appealed to him. “Nice plan.”

“It wasn’t really a plan,” I admitted. “I liked her more than I thought I would. And she has quite a knack for finding trouble.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Total coincidence that she’s Katherine’s descendent?” he queried suspiciously. “That she’s got a vampire boyfriend and a witch best friend?”

“Normally I try to stay away from other supernatural creatures.”

“Why?” he asked, as if that were the most boring thing he’d ever heard of. “We’re so much more fun, and you’re so much more resilient than humans.” He grinned and pulled me closer to him with a force that would have bruised an ordinary person.

“I find that most supernatural creatures, especially those that have lived as humans, end up with these conqueror complexes,” I told him dryly. “They start scheming and planning, thinking they can take over the world…”

“And naturally they want you to help,” he guessed archly.

“It makes for awkward social situations,” I nodded. “I’m just not into that.”

“Like when Elena wants to play board games,” he observed. “Or Caroline offers to give you a makeover.”

“Things get considerably messier when the people I’m turning down are… not human,” I understated. “They come unhinged pretty easily.”

“So what kind of supernatural creatures are we talking about here?” Damon asked curiously, but I judged this was not a burning question. “Elves? Fairies? Klingons? Smurfs?”

“No Smurfs,” I assured him. “But Snorks are real.”

More relaxed than he had been all day, Damon slid his arms tightly around me. “Just one more question before you teleport us to my apartment and demonstrate your magical powers of flexibility,” he declared. I had not anticipated such an enthusiastic response—it was refreshing to be surprised. I raised my eyebrows expectantly. “How old are you?”

I chuckled at his brashness as he started to nuzzle my neck. “The last sibyls were still operating in the first few centuries of the Christian era,” I informed him. “And I _wasn’t_ one of the last.”

For a moment he looked up at me in amazement, more taken aback by this than by anything else I’d said. Then he grinned wolfishly. “I _love_ older women.”


End file.
